Inseparable
by Ibbonray
Summary: Book I of the Insanity trilogy. Annie Cresta was always different, but never special. Always avoided, but never understood. Always considered insane, but never asked to what extent. Annie Cresta was deep while the rest of them were shallow. Begins with the reaping of the 65th Hunger Games, extending until the reaping of the 70th.
1. We Came Here

Before you kill me... yes, I'm publishing another story, but I've not given up on anything else. This is something I will update on an every-month-or-two basis until I'm caught up with all the rest of my current fan fiction stories, and then I'll focus entirely on this.

So, what is "this?" It's the first in a trilogy I'm calling "Insanity." The trilogy itself will be based on the 65th Games and on past Mockingjay, entirely in Annie's POV first person past tense. The first book, "Inseparable," should be based roughly on Finnick's Games, up to the reaping of the 70th Games. The second, "Indestructible," will focus on Annie's Games and on to the announcement of the Quarter Quell. The last, "Irreplaceable," will be the 75th Games until after her son's birth. And then that will be over with. ...Sadly, this is all planned out in my head, not written down on paper. Hence the every-month-or-two updates. Fun stuff.

I've tried to write Annie's story so many times, but I've never had enough inspiration to follow through with it. This time I can hopefully delve into the depths of Annie's story without returning to the shallows. I'd love it if you'd give me advice on whether or not this story is all for nothing, and whether or not my characters are suffering from OOC disease. Please enjoy!

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_We came here on his back_

_-From Finner, Of Monsters and Men_

My home made me feel magical.

There was nothing magical about the place. It was a miniscule hut that sat close to the ocean, but I wished it were closer. The door wasn't quite the right size and the windows didn't shut all the way, if not completely shattered. The welcome mat was worn to threads, the bathroom infested with roaches, and a part of the house had collapsed at some unfortunate moment. But once I ripped down the striped curtains and had thrust open the windows that were partially intact, angled the moth-eaten couch into the sunbeams, sat upon it, and watched the dust particles dance about in the still air, I knew it was still my home and that I would always feel magical inside of it.

Dust particles always held my attention. They were only to be seen when illuminated by the bright rays of the sun, and could be disturbed easily by the wave of a hand. Sometimes, when I was very little, I would try to catch them. They always escaped me. Coraline had wondered aloud many times why I was so fascinated with dust, since such idle things never held her attention for long. It was one of the many things about me she never understood. Like why the beauty of Danny's laughter could captivate me. Like why I became so stunned by Finnick's kindness and bravery. To Coraline, appearance was the extent of one's character. Dust appeared to be a substance meant to cover up the beauty of an object, and so it would never become anything more in her eyes.

But I was Annie Cresta, and I knew appearance was not the extent of one's character. So therefore, the dust could become anything it wanted to be. If the dust wanted to be magical, so be it. If my house wanted to feel magical, so be it. If I felt magical inside of my house… so be it.

I knew it just wasn't right for any sane person to feel magical inside their house. But the house wasn't just any old house, and I wasn't sane. I had never been sane. Coraline used to tease me mercilessly about the way I would stare curiously at the dust, or anything that captured my attention the way the dust did- but she didn't know she was teasing me for being insane. Not completely insane, that is. Nobody is completely sane, and nobody is completely insane; just like there is no true black, and there is no true white. We are all in the middle. We are all gray. And I was right smack in the midst of the value scale, if not leaning a bit towards the insane side.

_Well,_ I assume you are thinking. _We now know Annie Cresta was (and is) partially insane. We now know that she was sitting in her house, looking at the dust particles, while feeling magical. But what was she doing in her house in the first place?_

The question is not _what was I doing,_ but _why was I doing it,_ you see. I was sitting on that moth-eaten couch, in the centre of a house that was definitely falling apart and was certainly mine, but there was a reason for this. It was because I needed to feel magical. I wanted to feel magical. I required the magical abilities to help me get through the day. That's the thing about (mostly) insane people- they're always attached to something, if not _multiple_ somethings. If they did not see that certain something when it was required to be seen, they would, and will, fall apart. _I_ would, and will, fall apart.

It was like medicine. My house was my medicine. It was a medicine that made me feel magical.

But it was also a _special_ medicine. I didn't need it every day- only the bad days, or the really bad days, or the absolutely terrible days. That day counted as an absolutely terrible day. It was the day of my first reaping, after all. Not everyone was frightened on their first reaping… I'm sure kids in District Two put little red X's on their calendars signaling the day they would be eligible. People in District Four didn't go to that extent, but a fair few did celebrate one's eligibility for their first reaping. I didn't celebrate mine. I was scared. I was panicked. I was petrified. I was terrified. I needed my medicine... so I got my medicine.

As I stared at the dust particles, I wondered why time slipped away so fast. Why time even existed at all. They told us in school about the Very Ancient Times, aeons ago when there was no Panem and there was no America and there was no Earth. Just a group of people who didn't know who they were and what they were and why they were. Just a group of people, placed there by magical beings known as "gods," who were placed in the heavens by a magical being known as "the God." It took my mind so long to wrap around it that I would think about the concept for hours and still get nowhere in my musings.

But it is said that, before "the God" was created, there was nothing. There was no time. And when "the God" was created, he created time. I wished he hadn't created time. I wished we could all just be; not been, not will be, but be; live now, live then, live forever, without aging, or being. My musings were truly wondrous. If there were no time, I would never age. If there were no time, I would never have been born. If there were no time, it would still be nothing, and there would be no "the God" to create it, and the world would be the most amazing nothingness there ever was.

I thought of ways to forget time; to banish time. I wondered about the existence of District Thirteen, and developed a theory about the creation of nuclear bombs so powerful that they would destroy anything and everything: even time, even "the God." I delighted in the thought that I could raze nothingness itself! If we the people of Panem, and Panem, and the world, and time, and "the God," and nothingness, and anything and everything were all destroyed, then there would be a simple void of… _space_… in which we would all be gone, gone, gone.

The benefits of that void of space were that I would never have turned twelve, and would never have to be in the reaping in the first place, and I would never be anything, and I wouldn't be nothing, either. I simply wouldn't exist.

I thought I would be happier that way.

But that way wasn't possible because there was no chance anyone could create a nuclear bomb so powerful it would wipe out anything and nothing. So I simply sat there, awaiting the doom that would come eventually, in a certain expanse of _time_ that I hated with an indescribable amount of passion, soaking in the magic that my house gave me. Watching the dust. Wishing I was the dust. Wishing the dust wasn't anything- wasn't nothing- wasn't there.

I wasn't sane. I wasn't insane, either. I had a depth no one could understand- I couldn't even understand it myself. Nobody understands depth… not even time, not even "the God."

I didn't really understand anything, after all. I never did. I still don't. There are many things us humans aren't supposed to know. And I was a human, just twelve years old, who understood the dust particles, but not depth, or time. I was just a girl stuck in between black and white, sane and insane, like everyone else. I was Annie Cresta.


	2. Caught Your Eye

_And we caught your eye_

_-From Finner, Of Monsters and Men_

I bid the house a silent farewell. It stared at me with its window-eyes and said good-bye in return. Or else, that's what I thought. It sure seemed like it. But Coraline was always correcting me. "That imagination of yours," she would say, "is so wild that it is untamable. It will always swim free." She didn't think any house, no matter how magical it made you feel, could bid you good-bye.

But it wasn't in my imagination. I just knew that everything I saw and heard was real, to either me or to both myself and somebody else. My old therapist had told me it wasn't real, but I knew he was wrong. Yes, I may have been delusional; and it did seem that I was delusional, for he drilled that word into my head a million times, until the entire world (the sea, the sky) turned a brilliant crimson; however, the delusions were real to me, and so they would always be real to the core.

He was the only therapist I ever liked. Maybe he was wrong sometimes, but he was also unlike the rest of them. They would twist words until they sounded pretty and delicate, but those words always shielded the truth. He told me the truth, outright. "You are delusional," he said. "You have panic disorder. You have synesthesia. You are bipolar." (This was before I attained the post-traumatic stress disorder.) And no, he was not polite, but he came close to telling me what I wanted to hear.

What did I want to hear? I wanted to hear that I was special. I wanted to hear the good things about the conditions I had, not the bad. And even if there were no good things about the conditions, I wanted to hear that being such an odd person was _okay._ None of the therapists or the doctors ever took into consideration that I was bipolar, and therefore, I had low self-esteem… but if they hid their words by polite little phrases, my intelligent mind would hate them for it. There was only one way to please me: they had to tell me it was okay. And none ever did.

It wasn't their fault. They didn't have the technology to look into my mind, didn't know what I wanted… because I would never tell them. I thought to myself, _if a therapist (or doctor) can tell me what I want without my asking them to, then I will stay with that therapist (or doctor) for as long as deemed necessary (which might as well be forever)._ And for five long years I searched, acquiring thirty-six therapists and doctors, moving through them like a fish gliding through the sea. But I never found the right one, because at the age of ten, I suddenly found we couldn't afford a therapist any more.

That was the week after they passed away. My mother, my father, one of my sisters, my brother: all dead, their bodies carted out to sea on a burning raft until they sank beneath the waves. They left me with Coraline, my older sister, who had no way of making money and used the sum our parents had left to buy another hut, far away from our old one. She couldn't bear the memories of our real home, I suppose.

The house we used to live in went up for sale, but nobody wanted it. The roof was tattered and the windows were unable to close or without glass, and since there was no money to repair any of it, it was never bought. To this day, it just sits there, gathering dust, attaining a new species of spider every week. When I need to feel magical, I will enter my house, and it will thank me because it is lonely. I feel bad now, and I felt bad then. I know what loneliness feels like, and if loneliness had the same affect on the house as it did to me, I would assume the house felt depressed (or irritable), suicidal, panicked, and when asked about its loneliness, it saw bright yellow-orange.

I hated bright yellow-orange.

My house probably hated it too.

_My _house. Yes, I referred to it as _my _house. I didn't live in it anymore, but it was still _mine._ It always was, always will be. Coraline never loved our old house much, and considered the newly bought house as _ours._ She often titled _her_ house as _Coraline and Annie's._ But although I lived in Coraline's house, it was never _my_ house._ My _house was the structure that made me feel magical, talked to me, and hated bright yellow-orange.

And that day, I was walking away from _my_ house. I did not particularly want to. I could have sat longer on that moth-eaten couch, for it was morningtime and the reaping began late: around seven. I could have mused longer on the creation and destruction of time, an idle practice, but one that occupied my time (how ironic). However, there were other ways to occupy the next eight or so hours, and if I was to enjoy my possible last moments in District Four, it would be worth it to spend those moments with Danny.

Danny was, simply put, my best friend. However, he was so much more than that. He was funny. He was charming. He was the only one who didn't give any negative acknowledgement to my multiple conditions. Together, since birth, we shoved aside our differences and become all but inseparable. Those who did not know us assumed we were twins. It was easy to conclude that we were brother and sister if the common stranger glanced at us briefly: we were the same age; we were the same height; we shared the same wavy, dark brown hair; we had a mutual bond; and if you got to know us a bit, you would even find our names rhymed.

If you bothered to discover that we were not siblings but best friends, you would laugh as we walked down the street, and would say, "Here comes Danny and Annie, who could be twins but are best friends." It would be a silly, lighthearted verse in a poem, assuming that the poem would be titled "Amity," "Friendship," or possibly "Twenty-four Hours Spent with Danny and Annie."

I have read many novels based on the stereotype that two persons born on the same day, in the same place (in this case, District Four), around the same time, would become best friends. In fact, recently Johanna bought a bundle of books for me to enjoy, and I found a dusty novel written many years ago by an author named "Wendy Mass." The book, entitled _11 Birthdays,_ was for younger adolescents, but I enjoyed it no less- marveling about the two innocent characters that were Leo and Amanda, comparing them to Danny and myself. It is sort of discouraging to say that Danny and I followed this stereotype very closely, as did Leo and Amanda in _11 Birthdays._ But friendship is friendship, and only the gods (and "the God") have control over friendship, and it was not my choice but theirs to confirm my bond with Daniel Odair.

I set off on my journey to find Danny. There were only three places he would be: the market, which was unlikely-, the beach, which was possible-, or the orphanage, his temporary home, which was most probable. I trudged silently down the dirt road towards the said orphanage, staring at my feet as I passed by women hanging up soaking bed sheets on their clotheslines, or the occasional fish-gutter. Still, they ogled at me, as if I were from the Capitol or some foreign, unknown land. I knew it made sense, as they all thought me a bad influence on their sons and daughters. I was used to them believing I was queer, the spawn of madness… even though it wasn't very nice. The only people who were ever nice to me were Danny, Coraline, Finnick (Danny's older brother), and occasionally a few boys from the orphanage (such as Tommy Costas).

Considering the size of District Four, that was a miniscule amount of people.

No matter.

I passed by the market, and then took a sharp right, walking away from the beach and the calm, clear ocean. The orphanage wasn't too far away, but Danny often complained about the distance he had to walk to dive into the sea, although it was only about four hundred metres or so. He liked to chatter on about the day Finnick would turn sixteen, and how they would buy a boat and convert it into a house, so they could sleep directly above the water, and could jump out to swim whenever they would like to. It was a hard dream to fulfill- as boats were expensive- but Danny's motto was, "Dream big, or don't dream at all."

After mounting the steps to the orphanage, I entered without knocking. The secretary, a little old lady named Betsy Walsh, looked up for a second, and then proceeded to lower her head back to her papers and ignore me. This was the usual routine. Most people would be offended by her turning a blind eye, but that day her actions were almost comforting, for her ignorance of my presence had not changed in all those years. Change was my enemy; and if change was my enemy, so was adaptability. Which was why I was frightened of being reaped for the Games… for adaptability was a key part of winning. If you could not adapt, you would die. That was the silent rule that not many people knew of, but was always hidden in the corners, waiting for you to discover it and for the truth to be exposed before your very eyes. Adaptability was a secret you had to discover… _change_ was a secret you had to discover.

I detested secrets. It seemed they were always being kept from me. The first therapist I ever had whispered to my mother in raspy tones about my conditions. Whenever I would inch closer to hear what the therapist was saying, he would boom loudly about my normalcy. It was aggravating. I was five, and I was bipolar, and I was sensitive… I wanted to know what he was saying. Now, I assume it was something including the words, "Panic disorder, bipolar disorder, synesthesia, delusions, and insanity." That was before the post-traumatic stress disorder, of course.

As you have probably determined, I was a messed-up child. An anomaly, even in the land of the peculiar.

I passed Betsy and a group of younger children clothed in tattered swimming costumes, on their way to play in the shallows and construct sand castles on the beach. They were being ushered out the doors by two volunteer workers. One, a nineteen-year-old named Torped Botsom, (or, as he was better known as, Torry) looked up and glared at me. Torry didn't like me much. He thought I was nuts. It also didn't help that he was distantly related to Danny (they were third cousins on Danny's mother's side of the family, I recall).

However, I didn't take Torry's avoidance and meaningful glares to heart. I learnt once that no matter how people treat you, you should always treat them with kindness. Since Torry seemed keen on staying the hell away from me, I did not pester him with my presence… I simply smiled and walked in the opposite direction. Which is exactly what I proceeded to do; coaxing an annoyed scowl to mar his decent-looking facial features (he was related to the Faiths (Danny's mother's family), after all, and everyone knew their family was the most breathtakingly beautiful family in the entirety of District Four… so if Torry's facial features didn't look even remotely decent, I would be quite shocked).

While Torry glared, the other volunteer- I couldn't remember her name- acted as if I were an uninteresting, partially invisible, and altogether boring stone pillar. Which suited me just fine.

I exited the main room as quickly as possible, and then ascended the skinny, bleak staircase that displayed a total of twenty-nine desolate and creaky stairs. I knew that because Danny and I had counted them when we were young- and since I mounted them almost daily, I would have probably known the number anyway. Along with being delusional, bipolar, anxious, suicidal, and synesthetic (with a touch of post-traumatic stress, acquired after the death of most of my family!) I spent longer than necessary observing things.

And, okay, although I was never diagnosed for it, I might have had OCD as well.

Maybe.

Probably.

The stairs opened up to the second floor of the building, where the dormitories were located. The girls' dormitories were on the right side of the hall, the boys' on the left. The first room on either side was the room for the infants, the second rooms for children ages three through six, and the third rooms for those ages six through nine. After these three rooms, on the boys' side, was a bathroom for the male children… and on the girls' side, the same pattern occurred. Then, on both sides, was a room for those aged from ten to twelve, with their own bathroom… and, on either side as well, there was a room for those aged from thirteen to fifteen, again with their own bathroom. There were no rooms for those aged older than this, because once you turned sixteen, you were entitled an adult and could legally buy your own house.

I walked quickly down the hallway, which was deserted except for fifteen-year-old Sydney Tides, who was hurrying out of the bathroom in nothing but a shabby towel. Her normally bright orange hair was a burnt umber colour, as it was wet; she had obviously just bathed. Sydney was Finnick's on-and-off girlfriend, but she hated me fervently, which was the reason she glowered at me until she disappeared through the door to her dormitory. I did not bother to glare in return, but I had made it clear to her long ago that I disliked her just as much as she disliked me. We were not prone to lie pettily about our feelings toward others. Sydney and I were alike, which could have been the reason for our mutual hate.

I approached the fifth room on the left side (I suppose it could have been considered the fourth room, as the actual fourth room was a bathroom) and knocked rapidly on the door. Johnny Current, a ten-year-old who was taller than me but feared my presence nonetheless, opened it. The moment he glanced at my jade-coloured eyes, he cowered in terror that almost made me laugh. Almost.

"Hello, Johnny," I said. "Can you please get Danny for me? I will be forever grateful." I would have retrieved Danny myself, but Betsy had made it clear long ago that I was allowed to enter the boys' dormitory _under no circumstances._ It would be foolish to break the rules… and I did not want to encounter any boy while he was in the midst of changing, anyway.

"I-I-I, uh, y-yes, of c-course, A-Annie," Johnny stuttered, closing the door (to my ultimate relief). I waited patiently outside the door for a full minute until it opened once again, expelling Danny himself, with a nervous Johnny in tow.

"Hi, Annie!" Danny all but squealed, grabbing my arm and squeezing it.

"Hello, Danny. Thank you, Johnny, you may go." Johnny did as told, shutting the door behind him, leaving me with an enthusiastic Danny whose mouth was emitting golden spirals as he chattered on about this and that. Everything Danny said was coated in a fine layer of gold. It was a direct effect of my synesthesia: all sounds had colours and shapes. I had come to love Danny's golden spirals, as I loved Coraline's deep blue squares and Finnick's sea-green streaks… and I had come to love when all three of them blathered on meaninglessly, for gold spirals and blue squares and sea-green streaks were comforting, and only "the God" knew how much I needed comforting (especially on that day- reaping day).

"So what do you have in mind before the reaping? Should we go to the beach? It would make my day to go to the beach!" Danny said loudly, the excitement in his voice equal to the excitement a five-year-old would feel if he were placed in a sweet shop and told he could eat anything he wanted to.

"Yes, that was what I had in plan… but I swear, Danny," I shook my head, "If you become any more elated, I will have to diagnose you with bipolar disorder as well."

"Looks like someone's a little grumpy," he rolled his eyes as we proceeded to walk past another bathroom, stopping in front of the thirteen-, fourteen-, and fifteen-year-old boys' dormitory.

"And borderline depressed," I sighed. "It could be because the reaping is scheduled for today. Or," I held back a smile, "because Torry glared at me."

"Torry glares at you every day!" Danny burst out laughing.

"Exactly," I said, amused, knocking on the door we had halted in front of. Tommy Costas, one of Finnick's good friends, flung it open almost instantly. Tommy was fourteen and had dark skin, white teeth, and blue eyes that were constantly crinkling at the corners. He wasn't known to be intelligent but he was always around to say something ridiculous and get everybody laughing. Tommy was, to put it simply, the orphanage comedian.

"Heeey, Ann and Dan!" Tommy shouted, grinning. He was half-naked, clad in only a pair of beige shorts, and he had a towel lifted up to his damp hair, attempting to dry it. "How're my favourite twelve-sies? Excited for the reaping tonight?"

Danny snorted and I muttered, "When fish walk."

"What was that, Annie? You _aren't_ excited?" Tommy gasped in mock horror, and then leaned in closer, his face taking on a serious expression. "Make sure that none of the Capitolites hear that, they'd have you skinned. And then they'd replace your skin with opalescent scales!" His grin took up the bottom half of his face again and he chuckled. "So what can I do for you?"

"We'd like you to fetch my _dear_ brother, if you please," Danny said.

"Of course, your majesties!" Tommy cried, bowing low. "I am honored to follow your royal instructions. I am to be of your assistance until the day of my death. As your humble servant, I-"

Giggling, I placed a hand on his chest and shoved him back through the doorway. "Just inform him that we're waiting."

"Yes, yes, my Queen," Tommy bowed again and turned around, proceeding to holler for Finnick. The bronze-haired, green-eyed boy himself appeared a few seconds later, pulling on a dark brown t-shirt and looking disgruntled.

"Don't tell me," Finnick said, putting his hand up. "You all woke me up early in the morning, on reaping day no less, so I could supervise your trip to the beach. Well, kids, you're going to have to wait a couple more hours so my brain can actually function just in case you both drown or-"

"Finnick," I interrupted. "It's almost noon."

"_What?_" He exclaimed, running back into the dormitory to check the time. Once he had determined that it was, in fact, almost noon, Finnick began to yell at his roommates, wanting to know why they did not wake him up sooner. I think Danny just about died laughing when Tommy ran in to join the commotion, calling, "Ah, kind sir, but 'tis reaping day! And we partook in a friendly competition to see who would awake the fastest, as a test to determine whether or not you could be conscious in time to save your own sorry ass in the arena, just in case you were reaped! I am sorry to say, kind sir, you lost. May the odds be _ever_ in your favour!"

Eventually, Finnick obliged to our requests to supervise our beach excursion (he was a trained lifeguard, after all). But before he left, he went inside to change into his swimming costume. Finnick quite loved his swimming costume, whether or not because he could swim in it or because it gave him the chance to flaunt his well-defined muscles. If there were one verb used to describe a day in Finnick's life, it would probably be "flaunt"- as that was pretty much all he ever did.

But although he might have spent his time flaunting his perfect body, Finnick himself wasn't conceited the least bit. His body was a shield for what he truly was: gallant, kind, and afraid. Afraid because he was just a boy living in an orphanage, blessed with a beautiful body that he used for all the wrong purposes. I pitied him. Yes, the delusional, bipolar, anxious, suicidal, synesthetic, and partially insane twelve-year-old girl _pitied_ him. Pitied his confusion about destiny, pitied his solution- a façade in which he flaunted his every lovely trait.

I did not, however, pity my best friend, for Daniel Odair knew exactly who he was and exactly what he wanted. He wasn't quite as pretty as his older brother, but he was handsome nonetheless, with chocolate, wavy hair and sea-green eyes a shade darker than Finnick's. They shared the same deep tan skin and long, deft fingers; however, their personalities were opposite, Danny hopeful and giddy and in love with District Four, the true Finnick quite serious and slightly morose, weighed down by what everyone else thought he should be.

I talked with Finnick sometimes. Occasionally, he would vent about the issues he faced- turning to the girl with the problems to help him solve his (not that I was good at solving problems). Quite ironic, actually… sometimes I wondered why he didn't help me solve mine, in fact. Then, I realized that my problems were incurable, and he knew that as well. My problems were so large that even the true Finnick turned away.

We stopped at Danny's room so he could retrieve towels for both himself and for me (we were both already dressed in our swimming costumes), and then bounded down the twenty-nine stairs. We passed Betsy Walsh, who ignored me and tried desperately not to stare at Finnick's impressive abdominal muscles (even the elderly ladies loved him- I'm sure they wished they were young). We ran out the doors into the bright sunshine, but the rays of light softly hitting my skin did not improve my calm (and slightly depressed) mood. They did wondrous things for Danny, though, because he smiled and laughed and challenged Finnick to a race. Of course, Finnick couldn't decline such a challenge, and after throwing their towels at me, off they went, hurtling at full tilt toward the marketplace, leaving me in the dust.

Which was quite alright- I liked dust, and the dust liked me too.

So often did Finnick and Danny leave me behind that it didn't strike me as offensive- after all, they always waited up for me, despite how slowly I walked. Sometimes, I would join the two brothers, running like the wind towards a certain destination. But that was only on the days that I wasn't under the constraint of the depression- that were few, as depression averaged two weeks and mania averaged about four days. Every once in a while, there would be an in-between state, but that didn't last long either.

Sometimes I felt my life was controlled by my mood. I tried to fight it, but it was no use. Succumbing to the mania and the depression were the easiest things to do. And that day, I was teetering on the edge- I didn't particularly want to go to the beach, but I wanted Danny to have a nice time if these were his last days in District Four, and I wanted to have a nice time as well, no matter how much I had to fight the sadness, the grief, the overbearing sense of lifelong foreboding.

Yes, I did say lifelong foreboding. I sensed that that day, despite the magnificent sunshine in the cloudless sky and the usual disgust and ignorance from those who did no know me closely, was the turning point of my young life. That day, a regular day if not for the reaping that hung over my head in a taunting fashion, was going to change me forever. I certainly didn't know how- was I going to be reaped? I hadn't the slightest clue- but the foreboding spurred my depression and the depression held me down, telling me, "Don't run, Annie Cresta, and come out and play."

Play? Play? How was I supposed to play with depression, if depression seeped the joy from my body, leaving me a tired, empty shell? It was a question that plagued me often, and yet depression wouldn't answer. All she would say was "come out and play" with that voice of hers that sent black zigzags raining down around me.

And yet I heeded her request- I didn't "come out and play," but I did refuse to run along with Danny and Finnick- and it was proof that the black zigzags were beginning to wrap around me, dragging me down into the depths of a black pit. They were so real I could _see_ them. But I resisted their pulling, since I had to survive this day awake, alert, and alive, so to rid of them I stared at the puffy white clouds that decorated the azure sky and batted the lines away with the three towels I carried.

I know for a fact now that depression is not a woman who is dressed in black smoke whose voice sends black zigzags in every direction, but at the age of twelve, I was dedicated to my beliefs. In my subconscious, I knew it was a figment of my imagination- my delusions- but I preferred to think of ideas and emotions and inanimate objects as those I could understand and those who understood me. It made everything easier. I didn't have to make impossible decisions because the voices would argue until their persuasion got the better of me, spurring me to make my obvious choice.

Anyway, back to the subject on hand- or on pencil, I should say, as that is what I am using to write this autobiography. …As I approached the market, confined to my complicated thoughts, Danny and Finnick were waiting for me. Each looked winded, but from the pout that marred Danny's lips, I assumed Finnick had won the race. _Of course Finnick won._ He was taller- older- faster- and more athletic that Danny ever was, which my best friend found frustrating. I always humored Danny, but to tell the truth, I admired Finnick's speed. It excelled even mine when I was in a maniac state.

They did not question me on the length of time I had walked to the market: which had been about five minutes. They questioned my motives only rarely, for the two brothers knew my ways, no matter how queer they were. Danny even asked me, "Who spoke to you on your journey, princess?" but without a joking tone like any other person I knew would use.

I knew that I was the only person I knew in District Four that could see these things, and yet I was grateful that Danny constantly acted as if it were regular of twelve-year-old girls. "I spoke to depression," I told him. "She requested I 'come out and play.' I bluntly refused."

"Come out and play?" Finnick asked quizzically. He understood my odd delusions, but he also thought that somewhere in the depths of my mind I was completely rational. And yes, somewhere, I was. But that was mixed in with who I actually was- I could not seek it out and use it to my benefit, for I would get caught in the other things that were my imperfections.

Then again, he could have been referring to why depression would want to "come out and play," which I was wondering about myself. And so my reply was, "Depression is a bit fond of hide and seek," which somewhat worked for both answers.

I think I only succeeded in confusing him further. "Annie," he shook his head. "Don't play games."

"I'm not playing games. Depression is the one who is playing games," I smiled, giggling at my own joke and pushing the black zigzags out of my vision (mentally, of course). Danny snickered as well, holding up his hand to me for a high-five. Finnick, however, looked a bit exasperated.

"Oh, please. You are playing a game, and it's not amusing. I came here to babysit you both, not to put up with your ceaseless banter. I have other things I'd like to do today."

"Such as?" Danny raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to spend the time with the only family you have left, as well as my best friend, whose sister is more hot than Sydney Tides? I feel reasonably offended!"

I turned to Danny, commenting as if his brother were not in our presence, "I suppose he wants to make out with his girlfriend. And for that, he wouldn't want two measly twelve-sies to be standing behind him, watching over his shoulder."

"Like anyone would bother to watch that," Danny's nose contorted in disgust, making me laugh and Finnick scowl as he managed to tow us both along the edge of the marketplace. We got many stares from the merchants and vendors, and there was no question as to why, for we were probably making quite a scene: the most beautiful man in the district with a rare scowl on his face as he held his younger brother and his younger brother's best friend by the ears, dragging them down the street.

I would give anything, now, to have been one of those outsiders, watching the trio make their way to the beach. But I was Annie Cresta, and I was not destined to be normal. I was destined to reach the highest of the highs and the lowest of the lows, destined to always be shunned by those who did not understand me and thought of me as their unequal. I was destined to put up with the stares.

And to put up with the stares, I had to find in myself a strength that not many had.


	3. Seagulls Cry

_The salty ocean wind_

_Made the seagulls cry_

_-From Finner, Of Monsters and Men_

There is a famous quote that goes, "If one dies, let him die… if one cries, let him cry… after all, everyone knows why." When I was eight, Danny introduced this philosophy to me, commenting on how stupid it was "since crying is for babies." However, I brushed away his remark and found delight in the phrase, taking it to an entirely new level of meaning than the original creator ever thought it could have. As the creator never specified what "one" was, I decided to take the matter into my own hands and note that "one" was not, in fact, a human... but a tear.

You see, humans cannot cry. Tears may be mysterious, unavoidable things, but we do not cry them. Tears cry themselves. They cry over the death of their loved ones, and since tears do not last long, there are many deaths to cry over, hence producing more tears. Occasionally, there will be a group of tears that cry for no reason, birthing themselves, spurring the human puppet to unleash them. Then the in-between group will cry over their loved ones' death. And, finally, another group of tears do not love anyone at all and decide not to cry themselves out (why they would is beyond me- human puppets are comfortable, as I'd imagine).

Simply put, humans take credit for the tears' doing, which is an unjustified process that I've always despised.

After that little explanation, you can conclude that I have never cried. You have never cried. If tears fall from your wide, glassy eyes more often than not, it is because your tears have weakness and empathy and love. If you do not shed melancholy feelings, then it is because your tears are strong and stubborn, refusing to cry for those they cared about.

Or, I suppose, they don't care at all.

My tears are stubborn. They have taken a liking to me and prefer their home buried deep inside myself, deciding not to show themselves to the world, unless desperate times call for desperate measures. Not that they decide to appear at all desperate times- the death of my family, for example, was a desperate time, but my tears would not cry.

Then again, my family wasn't exactly worth crying over.

The entire ordeal began with my middle sister, Minnow, who was born three years before me. And oh, Minnie was perfect. She had flowing brown hair and blue eyes that sparkled and her body had fully developed before she even reached reaping age. Minnie received perfect grades and whenever she walked down the street every male in close proximity would stop in their tracks and stare. The amount of times she had been asked out was undeterminable. And yet, Minnie continuously declined. She never once had a boyfriend, although my sister probably would have… if she hadn't been reaped for the sixty-third annual Hunger Games at the age of thirteen.

I'd always been jealous of Minnie until then. I'd constantly dwelt in her shadow, always trying to live up to the high expectations of my parents after they had seen what Minnie could do, but it had never been enough. I was already an anomaly, as it was. And so there were only two occurrences in my life that I was not jealous of Minnow Cresta.

The day she was reaped, and the day of her death.

That year, the arena was a cave setting, covered in spikes. You couldn't step anywhere without having to dodge a thorn or a stalagmite. The only area in the entire network of caves that did not have something sticking up from the floor was the ground around the Cornucopia, which made running away from the bloodbath a near impossible task. And yet Minnie did it. She high-tailed it off her platform until she met the beginning of the spikes, and then dodged them effortlessly, as if hopping over clusters of boulders surrounding the rocky beaches back home.

Minnie survived until the fourth day. I was at school when she died, as was Coraline. My father, a fisherman, was out at sea, struggling to fulfill a shipment of shark fins for a party in the Capitol. My mother was at home, alternating between bathing my one-year-old brother and going to watch the television, looking for updates.

Although nobody knows what exactly happened, the events that followed were about as clear as the sea around Cozumel (an island that is a part of District Four). My mother left my brother in the wash bin for a moment, going to check on Minnie, just in time to witness the girl from Eleven stab her in the throat. My mother, stricken by grief, sank to her knees and began to wail for her favourite daughter as Minnie choked on her own blood. Meanwhile, my little brother, unable to swim, sank underneath the water and died.

Coraline and I came home from school that day to screaming. The front door was locked, so we climbed in through one of the windows. We found my mother on the floor of the bathroom, having pulled herself together and gone back to her son, just to find him dead; his skin pale, his lips blue. My mother had gone mad from grief. She would not stop screaming about the deaths of our brother and sister until we gave her a dose of sleep syrup, rendering her unconscious for the last time.

Coraline's tears cried. She loved mother more than I did. She loved Minnie and my brother more than I did. She didn't have any reason to be jealous (Coraline was almost as beautiful as Minnie, and got just about as much attention as our brother did), and had every reason to care for them. So Coraline's tears felt it time to cry.

Mine were continuously stubborn, and so I stared numbly at my little brother's corpse that I held in my arms, wondering what to do with it. Eventually, I laid him down in his crib. It looked as if he were sleeping- like he was a normal child, and not a dead child. Like no tears felt obligated to cry for him. I knew mine didn't want to.

Coraline and I spent the rest of the day watching the Games. Eventually, the recaps began, and we witnessed the death of Minnow Cresta for the first time. Coraline's tears fell. Mine didn't.

At one point, our mother ventured outside to gather a pail of pebbles. She then proceeded to sew them into the hemline of her most atrocious dress. Having done this as twilight descended, she silently walked outside, ran down to the docks, dragged our old, wooden rowboat into the shallows, and climbed inside. Coraline and I watched, but we didn't interfere. We didn't know she had sewn the pebbles into her dress. If we did, our lives after that night may have been changed for the better (for I believed my life to be the worst- and yes, it was the worst, yet I grew to become the best Annie Cresta the world ever knew to exist).

We stared as our mother rowed out to sea, and then with the weight of the pebbles in her dress, the miniature boat began to sink. When she didn't appear on the surface, Coraline cried out and ran to the shoreline, jumping into the frigid waters and gliding throught them seamlessly... but alas, even a seamless rescue was too late.

Father came home late that night. We related to him the news, and he didn't seem surprised- just nodded grimly before journeying straight to the cabinet in which the alcohol was stored. He pulled out a bottle of vodka and downed it in less than a minute, as well as the champagne and the wine and even the rubbing alcohol in our medicine cabinet. He drank our house dry. Coraline tried to stop him, as she'd tried to stop everything from happening, but he picked her up and threw her against the wall, where she slumped down and went unconscious, blood trickling from where her head had hit the plaster.

And still Father drank, pouring the rest of the spirits we owned into a massive bowl, dipping a cup in and overturning it into his mouth, proceeding to do this until he passed out, his face falling forward into the alcohol mixture. I was laughing when he died, because I hated my father- I really did. He had done things that were illegal and unacceptable. When drunk, he would beat mother up, or occasionally Coraline. He deserved to die. He deserved it.

When our neighbors came over the next day to inquire the source of the commotion the night before, their findings were shocking. There was my brother, dead in his crib. A note my mother left on her bedroom table, telling us she loved us and why she had to leave. My father, face first in a bowl of alcohol. The television playing another recap of Minnie's murder. Coraline, unconscious and leaning against a wall. And me- Annie Cresta- laughing as if I had received a particularly ridiculous birthday present.

The rumours about me had been bad before, but once the neighbors came upon me in the midst of my hysteria, they took a turn for the worse. For two years I had been hearing the rumours of the crazy, mad girl that I was. Not that they were untrue... but the citizens of District Four took oddities to the extremes. I began to get wary looks, and most of those that would speak to me before (which were few) began to consistently avoid me.

I attempted to commit suicide twice before Danny, his eyes melancholy, convinced me that many of the citizens of District Four had biased perceptions and misconceptions of who I really was, based on the rumours that became wilder as time passed.

Someone once asked me if I had imaginary jellyfish friends that lured me into the depths of the ocean whenever I entered the water. It was ridiculous. It was true. Another wondered aloud about why my choice of research topic in school was based on the psychology of infants, babies, and young children. I was embarrassed about my interest in such a thing. However, they were correct.

When Sydney Tides inquired whether or not I was a whore, I had slapped her across the face and told her to go swallow a pail of salt water. Maybe that's why she hated me. Then again, I had incentive, and (as that one saying goes) "provoking leads to choking." (This, of course, is figurative... strangling is not included in the list entitled, "Annie Cresta's Favourite Pastimes.")

Back to the topic at hand... or, in other words, the phrases at hand: No one can cry. I cannot cry. You cannot cry. Finnick cannot cry, so of course, he didn't cry that day.

His tears did.

We made our way past the market. Eventually, Finnick refrained from acting upon his irritation, letting us make our own paths on the rocks that led toward the beaches in one direction, and toward the docks on the other (of course, there were smaller docks that peppered the beaches frequently, but the main docks covered a large expanse of land and housed the boats used for trolling, crabbing, and mass catching). The rocks are sharp and jagged- one false move, and you could be seriously injured. It reminded me of the Games. It reminded me of Minnow's

Danny and Finnick knew this, and threw cautious glances at me, wanting to understand how the setting effected me. It did effect me- it always did- but I did not let my careful, placid façade slip. I concentrated not on the rocks, but where they were leading, struggling to keep my breathing even. I wished there were another way to the certain beach we were heading towards, but we were not going to go to desperate measures to get there. It was either the rocks or jumping off a cliff. Neither was appealing.

When my bare feet finally touched the sand- shoes were scarce in District Four, as we hadn't much need for them- I let out a sigh of relief. Danny caught up to me and we walked over the most popular beach in Community Seven (there were twelve Communities in the district, for our district was largest, and there couldn't very well be one community that covered the entire expanse of what used to be "Mexico" and the southern "United States"). Finnick walked a ways behind us, as if trying to deliver a silent message to those sitting on the beach that he wanted nothing to do with us. As if trying to excape the stares that always followed me.

Danny didn't care. He basked in attention, no matter what sort of attention it may have been. My best friend threw smiles at those who narrowed their eyes and laughed at those who turned away. And at the same time, he conversed with me, gossiping away like one of the Popular Girls in our grade. It was like our roles had been reversed. Danny loved to talk about meaningless things, and I preferred to listen. Often I was uninterested in the topics at hand. Daniel Odair never seemed to notice.

"I love this," he said after a time, gesturing around himself vaguely. "I love being on holiday. School is so _boring,_ don't you think? Now, I can spend my day swimming, without a care in the world."

"Danny," I told him, "the only reason we're on holiday is because of the reaping. Take that into consideration, and maybe this day won't be as lovely."

"But why should I take something so pessimistic into consideration if we still have time, if we still have _hours_ to enjoy ourselves before we have to focus on the worst event of the day? It is important for me to enjoy myself, and for _you _to enjoy yourself, Annie. Depression is taking too much of a toll on you. It takes too much of a toll on everyone. Let us not dwell on the future or the past, but instead, live in the present."

"That is easier said than done," I replied, digging my toes into the sand and flicking them upwards so the sand created a momentary cloud around my ankles before settling down again. It reminded me of dust. "You are naturally inclined to be happy. I cannot force myself to be happy- cannot force myself to let go of the depression."

"I am not forcing you," Danny smiled, running his fingers through his brown hair. "And you cannot force yourself- I fully agree with you on that. But you can _let_ yourself feel joy, Annie Cresta. You can let go of the black zigzags, and embrace happiness."

I considered this, and considered the black lines that continually grabbed at me, trying to pull me down. "I can't let go of them," I said. "They hold me in their arms."

"And happiness doesn't?"

"I normally associate happiness with dark blue, and dark blue does not have the power to hold me, as it emits from your mouth."

Danny stopped in his tracks. "You say I do not have the power to hold you?"

"Physically, you can hold me. However, this is more of a mental issue than physical, and how you could impact me in such a way is unbeknownst to me."

"So be it."

We began to walk again and let Finnick into our conversation (which had lost its depth and moved on to lighter topics), as he had caught up to us and we were leaving the main beach behind. We crossed over another patch of rocks and came across a private beach. It belonged to Old Banks, a retired fisherman of grumpy nature who lived off of the fish he caught for sport. Before he could see us and yell our trio off his property, we sprinted across the beach's expanse and disappeared into a grove of palm trees, coming out on the other side to find a reclusive beach that was, at the time, deserted.

The beach itself was of white sand, and small. A grove of palm trees shielded it from left and right, isolating it from the rest of District Four. Behind it, the ground sloped drastically upwards, forming a cliff of jagged sedimentary rock that was about eight metres high. It towered over us, resulting in half of the beach covered in shade and the other half exposed to the sun, heating the sand closest to the water. Finally, the water itself was a beautiful turquoise that deepened in colour as you swam further out to sea, resulting in this certain spot to be the basis of natural perfection.

Danny and I had converted this into our special spot, and we shared it with my sister, Coraline, and Finnick, who occasionally took his girls here as a romantic getaway (surprisingly, this worked quite well... the girls would be utterly seduced, but as far as I know, Finnick never partook in any intimate activities other than kissing at this particular beach... and after he dumped the girls, they would never return to the beach again, for it provided bittersweet memories, meaning we never had to share the beach with anyone). Besides Danny, Coraline, Finnick, the girls and I, not many knew of the beach's existence, so we were able to steal a canoe from Peregrine Pike's Boat Shop and permanently lean it up against the cliffs without fear of anyone stealing it (although stealing a stolen item couldn't have counted as legitimate stealing).

Along with the canoe, we stored a few other objects here: fishing poles, for the most part, and a lone trident. They were the few things Danny and Finnick scavenged from the remains of their house after their parents died in the fire (remarkably, the fire only took down half of the house before Finnick woke and called for help and they doused the flames in water. As it was in the middle of the night, Mr. and Mrs. Odair slept as the fire engulfed them. Nobody knows to this day the cause of the fire and why it began with the half of the house the parents slept in, and not the half of the house where Finnick and Danny slept next to the room with the fishing supplies. I don't think anybody will ever know).

Occasionally, we would take out the canoe and fish for fun. I didn't like fishing much, because Danny and Finnick and Coraline always insisted on eating the fish we caught, while I preferred to let them go. I simply didn't want to kill such innocent creatures, which was why I was a strict vegan. Another reason why nobody understood me. I was the girl from District Four who wouldn't eat fish. However, I always went on the fishing trips, because there was nothing else to do, and I didn't like to spend my days swimming by myself or sitting on the shoreline, yearning to be with friends.

The trident was Finnick's, and Finnick's only. Nobody dared touch it- not even Danny. It was Finnick's last true possession, and he was quite protective over the golden, three-pronged tool. Every day, he would spend an hour standing in the shallows of our little beach, spearing fish after fish with the trident while Danny and I (and every once in a while, Coraline) swam well away from the area. If I weren't mistaken, I would have thought he was training for the Games, but before that day I ignored the signs and kept the thoughts to myself. Finnick was, in fact, training for the Games... but not because he wanted to.

I stood in the middle of the beach, on the line where shade met sun, as Danny whooped loudly and ran into the water, splashing around until he was knee-deep in the ocean. Finnick was a bit more reserved in his actions, for he simply walked over to where the waves crashed as they met the shore and let his feet sink into the wet sand, his hands dangling at his sides. For a moment as I watched the two boys, I felt utterly calm, content, and full of joy- I felt the depression lift off my shoulders- and then it came crashing down again, and I sank to my knees, setting the towels I carried softly down on the sand.

I looked up to see the sun shining in the blue sky, and I felt the foreboding wash over me- the fear, the anxiety, the grief, the pity, the ire, the _despair_... and why was I feeling these emotions? Why? Why? I didn't rightly know.

My tears, they were beginning to wail- the sound of it filled my ears in a desperate cry to be let free- and I suddenly felt confined to my soul. I felt stifled, unable to unleash the true Annie Cresta even in the tears I knew would fall from my deep green eyes. I wanted a reason for my sudden panic attack, but there were no reasons for why I was rocking back and forth and covering my ears from the tears that were so loud in my mind.

In my mind. It was all in my mind.

"Annie," someone said. "Annie. It's not real. Depression is not real."

"It's not depression!" I screamed at them. They didn't understand what I was going through- I didn't know what I was going through- I was so, so confused. And then the picture of a boy of fourteen came into my mind as I squeezed my eyes shut, his sea green eyes laughing and the corner of his lip twitching as if he were trying to hold back a smile, and I knew. "It's him. It's him. It's him."

"Who?" As I took in a deep breath, I opened my eyes and came face to face with Danny Odair, his eyes flicking from my crazed eyes to my hands, which were slowly letting go of my ears. He looked honestly scared, and then he took my hands in his, squeezing them and clinging to me as if I were going to blow away in the breeze that came off of the ocean.

I leaned in towards my best friend and whispered, "I don't want to swim- at the moment, anyways. Maybe later. But right now, I need to talk to Finnick. I must talk to Finnick." Because I had _seen._ I had _seen._

"Are you sure?" Danny whispered. "I understand better than Finnick."

I shook my head vehemently. "There are some things you don't understand, Danny. There are some things that I don't understand. And, in some cases, these questions I have can only be answered by Finnick, because I cannot read his mind, and he will only open up to someone of the likes of me." Danny's expression was one of betrayal then, and I smiled at him, saying, "It is nothing against you, Daniel. In fact, it is everything against me. I can discover things because I am more intuitive than some, and it is the worst gift that has ever been brought upon me."

"Annie Cresta! You are the most perplexing, mysterious individual I have ever had the pleasure to come across, and I can't say I understand anything you're saying, so let me just assume it has nothing to do with me. I will let this go and enjoy myself while you discuss your grand plans to build a time machine." He said this with an agreeable tone, although the faintest hint of sarcasm was detectable underneath his words.

"Thank you, Danny," I said, standing up and directing my gaze towards Finnick, who was standing rigid in the surf, watching us. "That is all I could ask for."

I ventured into the shade, picking my way over to the base of the cliff, where a few large boulders resided. I sat myself upon one and waited as Danny consulted Finnick, pointing to me occasionally. Finnick's facial expressions changed repeatedly- a teasing laugh leaving his lips, and then a worried sigh. Eventually, he ran over to the cliffs, in my direction. Danny, in turn, ran further into the sea and dove into the waves.

When Finnick was just a metre or two from me, I patted the boulder next to me, and fixed him with a piercing gaze. "Finnick," I said, nodding to him.

"Annie," he said, his tone aloof as he sat on the boulder I gestured to, running his fingers through his bronze hair nervously. "What do you want?"

Not one for small talk, I simply inquired about his plans for the reaping. Finnick, ever the actor, replied that he was as frightened as everyone else. "I'm like everyone else, Annie," he told me. "I will wait to see if my name is called, and if it is, I will hope for a volunteer."

My eyes flicked from his eyes to the lines of his forehead, and then his hands, which tugged on his hair. And then... "You're lying."

"No, I'm not," he said, defensively.

"Finnick," I murmured. "You are lying. You are lying because you are not like everyone else. You are lying because you aren't going to wait to see if your name is called. You are lying because you will not hope for a volunteer... you _are_ a volunteer." The stunned expression on his face said it all. "I am not berating you for choosing to participate in the Games. I simply want to know why you are going to volunteer. I want to understand you."

The shocked silence prevailed a minute longer, and then Finnick's tears were crying. I reached over and embraced him, holding him close as the tears fell onto my shoulder, wetting the fabric of my swimming shirt. And yet I didn't care, because I knew this comfort would be the only way of persuading him to give me the answer I wanted.

After a few minutes of this, Finnick began to whisper in my ear. "Danny wants somewhere better. He deserves somewhere better... a house on the sea, like he's always dreamt about... but we don't have money. I need money. If I win the Games, I can get Danny what he wants."

I was struck by Finnick's naïveté, and just about laughed. But I didn't, for that would be cruel. "I think that Danny wants his older brother more than he wants money. Wait until you're sixteen... wait until you can get work, and then you can raise enough money to buy that house. The Games are a risk. You could die, leaving Danny with nothing, or you could live, proceeding to destroy yourself."

"I can't wait," Finnick muttered, pulling away and wiping away his tears. "I can't wait that long to give my little brother what he wants. I've been waiting ten years. That's _enough._"

"If you insist," I said sadly. "I only want the best for you, Finnick Odair. I cannot control your decisions, and I cannot prevent you from volunteering. I can't impact anything you do, because I am nothing but your brother's best friend. Destroy yourself at your own demand, but I hope you remember that I tried to help you, once. I hope you remember that I will always try to help you, because that is my purpose... to help others."

"And not help yourself?"

"I think we all very well know that I am past the point of repair," I smiled, getting to my feet. "I'm not going to try to help myself, and I encourage you not to attempt it, either... I just ask that you come to terms with my ways. ...But this is not the point. The point is that I will always stand behind you, Finnick."

I began to walk away, towards Danny, who was floating on his back and staring up at the sky. I longed to join him, but Finnick's last words prevented me from walking further, for an instant. "Why, Annie Cresta?"

"Because you are my best friend's older brother," I replied.

I never thought it would grow to be anything more.


End file.
